That Seat's Saved
by moriartyisme
Summary: Against all odds, Dean has grown old and not died an incredibly painful death. On top of that, he has grown older with his brother and partner-in-world-saving. When Sam dies, however, Dean descends into near madness and this journal recounts his final few days on Earth, as told by a worker in Dean's retirement home.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Well hello there my beauties! This is my first published fanfiction! This is based off a tumblr post written by improudsammy, though just loosely so. This is just a one-shot, but, as always, if you would like me to continue writing, or have any suggestions on something to write, let me know and I'll get on that! Enjoy! EDIT: I'm so sorry for the random html coding that happened here; I have no idea why and have manually taken it out. Sorry for inconveniencing you!**

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Patient Log #134: Dean Winchester  
Date: January 24

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Dean barely glanced up as I started to sit down but, as per usual, gave his brisk reply. "Sorry, that seat's saved for Sam." He was at the other end of the two-person table, but seemed to be in a whole different dimension.

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He had been saying this for years. Two years, to be precise. Well, one year and 245 days. Not that anyone was counting. The day before that his younger brother, Sam Winchester, passed on. There was nothing gory or unusual surrounding his death; it just happened. Old age. Better than most deaths these days. Dean had the look of a veteran, but when I searched him and his brother up on the internet nothing came up. And I mean _nothing_. No certification, credit cards, anything. The two brothers just existed in their own little void of themselves. When the two of them first arrived about four years ago, I could tell it was not of their own will. They always grumbled about getting "back to hunting" and how "Charlie was such a bitch". But they never went back to their beloved "hunting" (no weapons were allowed on the premises… anyways, there was no woods for miles around, so there would be no animals to shoot). But they were, for the most part, content. After a while, that is. They seemed to work well together, and didn't find any necessity in friending any others in the facility. They came to do what most seem to do, in the end. Die.

Not to say they had no friends. They just didn't have any in the facility. They had a few visitors. One man- whom they called Castiel- appeared to be in his 30's, and always wore a trench coat. He would stay and talk with the two for hours. He still came after Sam died, and was the only person who seemed to be able to break through Dean's hardened exterior. A couple others, including 'that bitch Charlie', came, though not as frequently. When Sam died, Dean didn't allow anyone to sit in the seat at the two-person table that had become habitual for Sam. Not even Castiel.

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I decided that day it would be best to pull up a different chair. "Dean" I spoke softly, reassuringly, "why do you always save that seat for your brother… He's _dead_ Dean. You need to let him go." I always started our one-way conversations like this. He never responded to me. Every other time I tried to speak with him, he just continued to stare out into God knows where. But, to my utter amazement, he spoke today.

"He _isn't_ dead. Just stuck. Maybe Heaven, maybe Hell, maybe even Purgatory, but he will come back, I _know_ it." Dean's wall between the real world and his own seemed to shatter right in front of my eyes. He stated his words as utter fact, but also whispered them, as if he was reassuring himself. I sat back, wondering how to continue. We never got this far.

"Dean, you need to accept he's dead and will never come back. It just doesn't work that way." My words seemed to resonate in him, and I could see a tear slowly crawl down his face.

"It… it has to. It _has_ worked for us. Too many times. Why should now… why should it be any different?" The sheer desperation and despair in his voice almost made _me_ tear up. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I could sense the truth in every word he spoke.

"Dean, I don't know. God works-"

"_THERE IS NO GODDAMN LORD AND SAVIOR. AT LEAST NOT ONE THAT GIVES A RAT'S ASS ABOUT ANY OF US. IF MY WORK HAS TAUGHT ME ANYTHING, IT'S THAT._" Dean's outburst silenced the entire room, but he didn't seem to care in the least. He didn't shout any longer, but instead turned to his only other form of despair: he started to cry. I had never seen him show this much emotion, not even at Sam's funeral. He looked at this point like a man who had a life's worth of pent up sorrows and miseries that hardly anyone could imagine. And at that moment, I realized why Sam was so important to him. Sam most likely went through the same things as Dean. They were closer than any other brothers I have observed, or may ever observe again. If I was certain about anything, it was that they had gone through hell, and that they were the only thing that kept each other together. Sure, Castiel and Charlie helped slow Dean's descent, but without Sam, Dean couldn't survive. He couldn't cope, and that is what I saw in front of me: a shattered man without his brother to help heal him.

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Dean died two days later, falling four days short of his 87th birthday. I write this log on his birthday, hoping to commemorate him in some way. Castiel was by his side, as was Charlie. I called them right after Dean's meltdown. I wish I could write down Dean Winchester's infamous last words, but I cannot since he died in his sleep, just like his brother. In his final moments, I could tell Dean was just waiting to be reunited with his brother again. I recall hearing Castiel murmur something along the lines of "I'll see you in a few, alright Dean? Sammy's fine, and I'll let him know you're coming. I promise Dean." Dean didn't respond but instead fell into his final slumber. There were few people at his funeral, which was held yesterday, but enough to show that he did impact numerous lives. I feel that he was one of those underappreciated men. Don't ask me how I know this, I just sensed it in the air around him. He would give everything he had to protect others, and wouldn't stop until all the evil in the world was gone. If only there were a million Sam and Dean Winchesters. I never expected Dean to get this stuck in my heart. He was a patient, nothing more. And yet, through his loss I felt loss. Through his sorrow I felt pain. But watching him in his final moments awake, surrounded by friends, I knew that he was okay, and suddenly, I was okay as well.

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**A/N: Thank you for sticking through this with me! I love you all so much! Again, let me know if you like this or want me to continue writing, I would _love_ to hear feedback (EDIT: let me know if I missed any weird coding... seriously, thank you so much for mentioning that) and if you liked it or whatnot. Don't be afraid! I love you guys! Have a wonderful day! **


	2. Dead Men Tell Tales

**A/N: Hello again! It has been awhile (sorry about that!) Honestly, I thought this was going to be a one-off, but Salt and Iron in the comments gave me an idea that I am going to run with! Enjoy!**

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I, Kara Petras, of sound volition and mind, write this now so that others know there is a power out there that is above our control. Demons, angels, monsters, whatever you want to call them. They are here. On Earth. They appear as ordinary humans, but they are so much more. I am still trying to work out the pieces of the puzzle myself, and I cannot prove anything yet. I am just posting this because there is a great chance I will not live to see sunrise tomorrow. Already, most of my coworkers and patients are dead. I am submitting this from my work, but I cannot stay. Already, my office lights are flickering. I must go. But you deserve to know the truth. Anything saved will automatically post in two hours to multiple sites on the internet, and only I can stop this. If I can get to a computer in time, if I am alive, I will stop the submission. I feel that this story will only continue to grow over time, and it should not be released until it has been completed.

If you are reading this, I am most likely dead or on the run. Do not try to find me, or you may find the wrath of demons falling upon you. But know that they are out there. Be suspicious. Be careful. There are beings out there with immense power, power you cannot even imagine. From what I can tell, all of this mayhem points back to one man: Dean Winchester.

Below is my log entry that I was typing only an hour ago, before everything went to hell. Before it was a life and death situation. God, there is already so much death.

They are coming i hvae t o go

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Patient Log #134: Dean Winchester

Date of Death: January 22, 2066

REOPENED

Date: June 6, 2068

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Never in my experience as a care worker have I reopened a case file after a patient's death. To be fair, if there was any case I would ever have to reopen, it would be Dean's. After two full years I still have not forgotten about him. He has made the greatest impact of any other patient in my career. But, I digress. There is a different, far more important reason than any sentiment I may have.

He kept journals.

Now I know how that sounds. 'An old man kept some diaries. How cute' etc, etc. I have had my fair deal of patients keeping diaries. Many of my patients have Alzheimer's disease, so I totally understand keeping diaries as a memory jogger. Hell, I keep one as well. But this was different. There were over a hundred of them. 112, to be exact.

Now the next question may be related to how he died two years ago, and me just writing about it now. That is the other peculiar thing. He kept them under the floorboards. He never told anyone about this, though I suspect Sam was in on the secret too. But I guess Charlie and Cas were not, seeing as the journals were still all there two years postmortem. He managed to evade the security camera's view, though that security camera in particular was always acting up when he was alive. Since this building is old, we thought it was due to faulty electricity. Knowing Dean Winchester as I do now, another explanation seems highly more likely.

We only found his journals because we are renovating, and the floors are decades old; it was time for them to go. I was tending to another patient when I got called down to the construction area (we are renovating one wing at a time), since they knew that I had taken care of Dean and his name was on all of the journals. I was there when they pulled the final journal out, and was awestruck. Who has enough stories in their lifetime to write 112 journals? When asked what I wanted to do with them (as I was the only one that knew the patient out of the group that had gathered), curiosity got the best of me, and I instructed them to bring the load of them to my car, so that I could take them back to my apartment.

After my shift, I went home and started reading. After getting approximately two hours of sleep, I am halfway through the fifth journal, and it is like nothing I have ever read before. It feels like a supernatural thriller fictional novel, but it feels too real. I don't know how to describe it; in every sentence there is truth. Dean had never in his years here showed signs of mental illness. He did talk about some weird things, with some 'out-there' ideas of reality, but I always chalked it up to confusion and old age. Everything becomes more muddled with age and despair. However, now I am not so sure. The journal is so detailed. According to him, he was in a 'family business' of hunting any supernatural being. Even with the supernatural beings, it is too true, too real. And it isn't like he wrote this starting when he was old, he started as a kid. He has written these journals for 70 years. If he actually had a mental illness, we would have found out, right?

I don't think I can keep justifying this to myself. These journals are not just the fantasies of a young child; they are real. His writings are real. But, that must also mean that demons are real. But so are angels.

I can't decide what is worse. Not knowing what happens after death, or knowing, but also knowing what haunts the Earth while still alive.

I am going to keep reading once I get home tonight. Dean Winchester has for sure lead one hell of a life, and I am grateful to be part of it, even if it was towards the end. In fact, I wonder if he ever wrote about me...

I just got a call from the construction workers; apparently there are lights flickering and strange noises coming from Dean's old room. Something about that sounds familiar, and haunting.

Oh, God, I need to go.

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~This is an automatic submission by KARA PETRAS, through SOCIALSUBMIT. Thank you for your patronage!~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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**A/N: Well, that was a tone-shift! This sorta felt like I was writing a creepypasta. PLEASE let me know what you think, and if I should continue this (my mind is already racing with loads of new content). Thank you so much for reading, have a fantastic day!**


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